


No Coffee Needed on Fleet Street

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crack, Developing Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Minor Character Death, Serial Killers, odd use of coffee shops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 05:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11373309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: There's a serial killer loose on fleet street. Sherlock wants to name it, bait it, and catch it. Greg's not so sure, but is very willing to go along once he meets the bait.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Copgirl1964](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/gifts).



> This fic was written for a winning bid of £25.00 in the 2017 Fanworks auction as a part of the The Rupert Graves Birthday Project! 
> 
> The prompt was as follows: 
> 
> "Street musicians get killed in London. They were all professional musicians from Russia who came to London to earn some money while their orchestra is on their summer break. Sherlock has an idea who the killer is and wants a person for bait to lure the killer. Said bait has to speak Russian fluently and play an instrument. He "sells" Mycroft to Greg, who's not certain how he feels about the situation but he wants to catch the killer badly and Mycroft speaks Russian like a native and is a fantastic piano player.  
> If something goes wrong or what, you'll have to figure out yourself. At the end I'd like both Mycroft and Greg to get together. How far, just first kiss or more, I'd leave to you."
> 
> I'd have loved to have had more space for such a detailed prompt! It was certainly an interesting story, and I tried to add a lot of humor in. The length this was meant to be was 2k word, and it ended up nearing 3.5k. I hope everyone enjoys, and feel free to check out the rest of my work!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who donated their time and money to this project! It's great to be a part of a charitable fandom!

Greg trudged up the stairs, listening to the screech of a violin. Sherlock must be in a good mood then, or at least baiting Mrs. Hudson. He rolled his eyes, pounded on the door, and then opened it. “It’s an eight at least,” he announced, yelling over the noise.

The music, if it could be called that, screeched to a halt. “An eight?” Sherlock asked, cracking an eye open to look at him.

“Yeah.” Greg tossed the folder down on the coffee table. Sherlock eagerly snatched it up, perching in his armchair to read.

“Thank you for that,” John called, coming down the stairs. “Tea?”

“If you don’t mind.” Greg took a seat, watching Sherlock flip through the photos as John padded into the kitchen.

“It’s a five,” Sherlock muttered after a while. “Mm…Russian?”

“Sure it’s a five?” Greg asked, rolling his eyes as John handed him a mug. “Thanks.”

“Of course. But I will stoop to your level and accept this case,” Sherlock said.

“Mhm, ‘course you'll stoop. Here, drink your tea,” John said, setting a mug down by him.

“Honestly, I’ve got two other cases on, so if you want to come back to me when you solve it…” Greg trailed off, rubbing his temples.

“The other case is boring, it was the sister-in-law,” Sherlock muttered.

“Thanks for letting me know two weeks in,” Greg replied.

“You were ignoring me.” Sherlock huffed as he tossed the file down. “I’ve solved it.”

“You already solved it?” John challenged.

“I have! We need bait. John, do you speak Russian? Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter, you don’t play an instrument.”

“I play clarinet.”

“Not useful, and you’ve never played it well,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Wanker,” John muttered into his mug.

“Sorry, how exactly did you solve this thing?” Greg asked.

“It’s the Bulgarian.”

“The Bulgarian?” Greg stared at him. “What-“

“What? Can’t I name a serial killer?” Sherlock asked.

“Generally left up to the media,” John informed them from depths of his mug.

“So you’re saying it’s a serial killer?”

“Of course it’s a serial killer, do keep up Lestrade.”

Greg groaned. “Okay, just to sum up. You’re saying that the person going around kidnapping and killing Russian buskers is a Bulgarian serial killer?”

“Not buskers, professional musicians from the Russian Symphony Orchestra on a break and making money on the street for charity. And the latest victim will be disposed of soon. Also, they’re all being taken from Fleet Street, so that’s where the bait needs to be established.”

“Sorry, the bait?” Greg asked. “You want to bait a serial killer? With an actual person?”

“Yes, and unfortunately, I do not speak Russian, nor does John, so we will need someone else. I have a _perfect_ person in mind.”

“Sherlock,” John said warningly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He owes me. And he plays that terrible piano just to bother me everytime that I visit.”

“You play the violin every time he comes over.”

“Inconsequential.” Sherlock strode over to Greg, and snatched his mobile from his pocket.

“Oi, Sherlock!” Greg tried to protest, but Sherlock was already tossing the phone back at him. He caught it, giving the man a glare. “Can’t you use your own?”

“Boring.” Sherlock flopped down on the couch. “Go away now, I’ll be at your office tomorrow at four pm.”

“Sorry, Greg. He’s been like this all week,” John said. “I’ll walk you out, need to go buy milk anyway. Someone left toenails in the carton we had.” He glared at Sherlock as he tugged on a jumper.

 

**

The next day Greg waited in his office with a severe case of Sherlock-related anxiety. He checked the clock, then bent down to rummage in his desk for a bottle of antacids. He frowned, coming up with a mostly crushed roll. “Suppose the grape will do,” he muttered, unwrapping the foil around them.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

“Christ!” Greg jolted up in surprise, slamming his head on the open top drawer. “Fuckin’ hell, jesus, mother of-can I help you?”

“My brother said you needed bait, and as I generally prefer for him to owe me favors as opposed to the other way around, I was conscripted. My name is Mycroft. Holmes.”

Greg sat up, staring, the butterflies in his stomach suddenly having nothing to do with Sherlock. Well. Not directly. “Ah..look, honestly, I’m not so sure about this whole thing. It was mostly Sherlock’s idea, and I’m still not sure why or how he’s going to bait a serial killer.”

Mycroft sighed and sank gracefully into a chair, fingers laced over the handle of his umbrella. “Allow me to explain then. Sherlock has enlisted my services as I not only speak perfect Russian, but also play the piano with a professional degree of expertise. Per the usual, he has explained only the bare minimum of what is necessary. You have a serial killer targeting musicians from the Russian Symphony Orchestra. The musicians are being kidnapped from the vicinity of Fleet Street, despite it being only point five kilometers long, and dismembered, then disposed of about the city. You have had three victims already that you know of, a fourth that will be disposed of soon, and then I will likely be the fifth target.”

Greg gaped at Mycroft. “Jesus, there’s two of you.”

Mycroft inclined his head. “To be quite fair inspector, I was here first. Sherlock simply stole the spotlight, something I was more than happy to let him do. Also, I expect we’re about to be interrupted with some bad news, so if we could hurry this along? I will be placing myself at Fleet Street in a small coffee shop that is known for it’s popularity with the foreign community at eight sharp, where I will be playing piano. You will be in attendance, as will however many officers you feel necessary to monitor the situation. The killer will not strike tonight, but will rather wait until a later date once she has ascertained my pattern and nationality. I’ve had a false notice placed with the Russian Symphony Orchestra that they will be hiring me at the start of the new season. I will be going under the name Mikhail Nikiforov.” Mycroft stood, removing a small packet of papers from his inner pocket. “The details you will need are inside.” He tossed it down on the desk just as there was a knock on the door.

“Lestrade?” Sally stepped in, hesitating when she saw Mycroft.

“That will be the news,” Mycroft said. He gave a small nod. “Do phone me if anything was unclear.”

“Right. Thanks,” Greg said, watching him go.

“Sir? We found another body. Another musician, already identified.”

“Let’s go then.” Greg nodded, and popped an antacid into his mouth. “Wait a moment. Did he say she?” he asked, pausing as he went to stand.

“I don’t know, sir.”

Greg rubbed his temples, then grabbed his coat. “One was bad enough,” he muttered, unable to help but reflect on the image the elder Holmes had made, arse magnificently covered in that dark pinstripe suit.

**

“So. Sherlock’s brother,” Greg said, glancing at John.

“Mycroft? What about him?” John asked, watching as Sherlock sniffed at the dismembered torso, then hopped up, running over to a rubbish bin and sniffing that next.

“Is he..well, anything about him I should know? You know, for this operation. No ah, girlfriend that’ll come hunt me down for using him as bait? Boyfriend?”

“Hardly,” John snorted. He looked up at Greg. “Hold on. You don’t seriously-Mycroft? Really?”

Greg shrugged, giving a small grin. “Well, the suit…”

John shook his head. “Whatever you do, do it fast. Otherwise he’ll deduce you to shreds and walk off. It’s a Holmes thing.” He gestured to Sherlock. “Try living with this git. Took months to get through to him what I wanted. Though, at least Mycroft shows a bit better in society. Can’t imagine him sniffing a discarded shoe.”

Greg observed, giving a thoughtful nod. “No, not really.”

“Speaking of…” John went over to deal with Sherlock, who was indeed, sniffing a shoe he’d found.

Greg turned as his name was called, and he walked over to the police line, seeing a black car idling.

“This fellow says he’s waiting on you, Inspector.”

Greg frowned, thanking the officer and ducking under the tape. “Can I help you?” he asked, seeing the window partially down. “Mycroft?”

“Indeed. Do get in, inspector.”

Greg wet his lips, and obeyed. “You do know where my office is, don’t you?”

“Yes, but you are not aware of where mine is, and as I realized I was woefully neglectful in giving you the number to my personal mobile, I decided to stop by.”

“In a fancy personal car looks like.”

“My work has a few perks. Now, as I was saying-”

“We should get dinner. Before you’re bait,” Greg said, interrupting him. “And I’d love that personal mobile number, but only if you let me use it to invite you on a date.”

Mycroft blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dinner with me? Tonight?”

“What on earth would you want that for?”

“I think you’re attractive, you’re obviously intelligent, and yes, you might be out of my league, but I’d like to at least try. So if not dinner tonight, how about coffee?”

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, then leaned forward, knocking on the partition with his umbrella. “Antony? Take us to the coffee shop on Carnaby please.”

The car started to move and Greg gave Mycroft a hesitant grin, secretly thrilled. “Leaving a crime scene for coffee isn’t quite the best move I’ve made for my career.”

“We’ll be gone for precisely twenty minutes. In that time, Sherlock will not create any havoc, too busy trying to deduce what my motives are in taking you, and your Sergeant Donovan will have things well under control.”

Greg wet his lips. “Well. Speed dating isn’t quite my thing, but I’ll certainly give it a try if it means I get to know you.”

Mycroft arched a brow. “Indeed.”

Greg smiled at him, wondering if John’s advice to “do it fast” would lead to him getting tossed into the Thames.

**

“Shrelock’s going bonkers,” John said, joining Greg at the table with a coffee. “Can’t figure out why Mycroft swept you off at the scene. So what happened?”

Greg brushed a few crumbs from his shirt. “It was...interesting.”

And it had been. They’d arrived at the coffee shop, and Mycroft had led him from the car and into the small shop. They’d been whisked immediately to a table, only two minutes later their coffees as well as a roast beef sandwich for Greg and a small salad for Mycroft. Greg asked, and Mycroft said something about knowing that Greg hadn’t eaten lunch and likely wouldn’t eat dinner.

The rest of the ten minutes they were there went just as strangely, Mycroft deducing everything about Greg’s life, current and past, then escorting him back out the car with a small doggy bag full of pastries for the rest of the team working the case.

“Honestly? I think he was trying to scare me off,” Greg finally admitted, taking a long drink of his coffee.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Well, did it work?” John asked, surveying Greg.

“Nope.”

“Gonna go on another date then?”

“Hopefully.” Greg looked up as Mycroft walked onto the shop floor with the manager. “Wow.”

“Christ, you’re far gone,” John mumbled.

Greg ignored him, trying not to stare too much at Mycroft. The man was in tight pressed trousers, an almost rust colored fabric, with a matching color waistcoat covering what seemed to be a silky black button up. Greg’s gaze moved up from the shiny polished shoes, smiling at the green laces and soles only to feel his stomach do flips as he saw Mycroft was wearing a pair of green rimmed glasses, his hair windswept and ruffled. “There’s no way he’ll actually put up with me.”

“I dunno, Sherlock puts up with me,” John replied, watching in interest as Mycroft went up to the piano in the center. “I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t kidnap you at first. He kidnapped me.”

“Never been kidnapped.” Greg leaned back in his chair.

“Well, consider yourself lucky.” John gestured as Mycroft sat down on the bench. “If he’s anything like Sherlock, this is going to be amazing.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if everything he did was amazing.” Greg blinked as Mycroft began to talk, the manager translating after a short pause. “Wow…”

“He sounds like a native,” John said, nodding.

“As an introduction, Mr. Nikiforov often plays an excerpt from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. He will do so today, and then will transition into the piano piece by César Cui entitled Orientale. Though it is normally accompanied by cello, Mr. Nikiforov asks for silence as he performs, as the piece will be in honor of his late friend Sergei, another musician from the Russian Symphony Orchestra, who was found dead just a few days ago. A moment of silence please, and then he will begin. Also, as a gentle reminder, any donations made to Mr. Nikiforov today will be given to the Children’s Aid Fund.”

Greg watched in fascination as Mycroft appeared to combat an internal struggle, wiping his eyes quite blatantly on a handkerchief. He realized, that not only was Mycroft pretending to be a Russian musician, he was throwing himself into the part and creating a completely new character.

Mycroft started to play, and Greg found it even harder to tear his gaze away to survey the crowd, the emotional pulls and drops of the music drawing his attention. He focused on the women, frowning as he saw only two in the shop, one of them his own officer, the other working behind the counter.

“Doesn’t look like our lady is here,” Greg said leaning in to John. “You see anyone that’s worrying?”

“No. And that kinda worries me. You’d think serial killers would be apparent. Sherlock’s out across the road though, so he probably thinks she won’t even bother coming in here.”

“Nice of him to let us know. Wondered why he wasn’t breathing down my neck.” Greg grinned, relaxing a bit, and letting himself enjoy Mycroft’s performance as the evening wound down. “John? D’you know if he smokes?”

“Might.” John shrugged.

“I think I’m going to go give the artist a compliment while he’s taking a quick break,” Greg said, standing. “Be back in a minute. Get some more coffee, won’t you?”

“Yeah, sure.” John waved him off, and Greg went after Mycroft who had slipped out the back door after a quick word to the manager. He paused in the doorway, not seeing the man anywhere. “Ah..Mikhail?” he called, looking around. “Mikhail!”

“What’s going on?” the manager poked his head out.

“Where did Mikhail go?”

“He said nothing, only that he was getting some fresh air.”

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t have gone that far…” Greg looked around, a bad feeling pooling in his stomach. He moved behind the door, finding a pair of green rimmed glasses on the ground, the glass in one lens shattered. “Oh fuck.”

 

**

Mycroft woke up with a groan, finding his top missing and his skin rather cold. He looked around, sighing as he realized he was in a freezer of some sort. How juvenile. The door to the room opened, and he immediately cried out for help in Russian, struggling as he saw the woman enter. “Please! Help me! Someone attacked me in the alley! I don’t know why I’m here!”

“There’s no help for you! Shut up!”

The woman slapped him, muttering as she turned away, picking up a bone saw.

“No, please!” Mycroft begged, deducing as he looked at her, making sure he sounded whiny enough for the character he was playing. “I don’t have that much money, but you can have it all! Anything I have! Just please don’t hurt me!”

“I’m going to hurt you,” the woman said bluntly as she tested the sharpness of the blade on her thumb and set it aside, taking a thick black marker from her pocket. She came over, and started drawing what seemed to be a guiding line on Mycroft’s torso.

“Stop! What are you doing? Let me go! Why are you doing this!” Mycroft let tears build up in his eyes, stealthily working to free his wrists.

“You murdered my husband, people like you. He only ever wanted to be a good composer, wanted music to be heard. But the orchestra always ignored him, never listened to his music! So now, I’ll take you. I’ll make them listen!” She cackled, capping the marker and moving away.

Mycroft smiled, and brought his hands around, standing up quietly. “Well, now that that’s sorted, I can get rid of these cuffs,” he said, moving and knocking the woman to the ground, tying her hands with the same rope that was on his wrists just a moment ago. “Madame, you are under arrest for several things, but first I’ll need to call for a car.”

The woman struggled and spat, unable to get free from under a well placed knee. Mycroft rifled through her pockets, searching for a phone. “Well damn,” he muttered, tugging it out. “No battery. Really?”

“Go to hell!”

“I’m quite sure when I do it will have frozen over,” Mycroft responded. He looked up, hearing an odd creaking. “Who-” He cut off, ducking as the door opened with a loud clang.

Sherlock and John rushed in, Greg per usual a few steps behind. “Oh. You’ve caught her already,” Sherlock muttered after seeing that Mycroft was all right.

Greg met Mycroft’s eyes, holding his tongue for the moment as he gestured to the waiting folks out back.

Another officer came in, escorting the woman out as the scene was suddenly flooded with police, taking photos and cataloging evidence. Sherlock disappeared into the rafters of the building, John dutifully following after.

“So.” Greg stepped over to Mycroft. “Got here in time, did we?”

“You certainly did, yes. Oh. This is the woman’s. She had a very interesting, if not entirely understandable motive. Apparently, the Russian Symphony Orchestra murdered her husband.” Mycroft offered the mobile to one of the technicians and then followed Greg out.

“Well, I know concerts can sometimes be boring, but if they’re anything like the one you gave earlier, I don’t know why she wasn’t killing people to get in,” Greg said jokingly, wincing as he saw one of the other officers on the scene send him a look. “Let me get you a shirt, you must be freezing. And there’s paramedics on the way,” he said quickly, trying to save face after the nonsensical joke.

“I actually believe I will be fine to leave. She simply managed to slam the door into my head, knocking me out really due to sheer luck. I don’t believe she was planning on abducting me today.”

“Yeah, she made a mistake. Got caught on camera. I think you showing up threw her for a loop. But you still need to stay for the paramedics,” Greg said, catching his hand. “And maybe after...if they say you can’t sleep for a bit, and I get this all wrapped up...how about that coffee?”

Mycroft looked at him. “I believe we’ve had coffee already.”

“I believe that twenty minutes is not enough time to get to know you. And certainly not enough time to finagle my way into a kiss.” Greg leaned back against the wall. “So. If you’d like, I want to date you Mycroft Holmes. Or at least have the chance.” He grinned. “It’s going to take a lot more than one serial killer to scare me off of you.”

“You still want to date me?” Mycroft asked, blinking.

Greg nodded. “It’d be an honor.”

Mycroft gave him a hesitant look. “Well, I suppose that despite the hour I could perhaps see about a cup of coffee.”

“Great.”

The paramedics chose that moment to arrive, and Greg watched them as they worked on Mycroft. Privately, he thought that a kiss wouldn’t come until at least the third date. Mycroft just seemed like that type of person.

 

**

 

(As it turned out, Greg was wrong again. Mycroft stole a kiss on the way to get coffee, and Greg very happily went along as they found a different way to keep Mycroft awake, no coffee needed.)


	2. Cover Graphic

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> Beta cred to the wonderful [Simply_Isnt_On](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On/pseuds/Simply_Isnt_On)


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